


Time Past

by flute25



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Experimental Style, Family, Gen, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Sad?, Slight Canon Divergence, lightly edited, more of a delaying of assumed canon events, yeah....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 08:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16091450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flute25/pseuds/flute25
Summary: After the events ofDark World, Loki has deposited Odin at the Shady Acres retirement community.And that - should be that.But the pull of family(not his family)is strong, and Loki soon finds himself a regular visitor at the decrepit institution.After all, Odin is enchanted, and what harm can there be in finally telling the old man what is on his mind without any repercussions?What harm, indeed?





	Time Past

**Author's Note:**

> So...I got myself all excited about these Loki mini-series rumors and sketched out an entire idea wherein the whole thing would take place in between Dark World and Ragnarok, with Loki visiting Odin in the retirement home and talking *at* him about his rule, about his experiences in New York, etc. I'm hoping to write a full on series about this, but I really wanted Loki to address his own funeral with Odin as part of this concept. 
> 
> This story is *heavily* influenced by Bojack Horseman, specifically Bojack's arc with his mother in Season 4 and the Season 5 episode "Free Churro." If you've watched, you might notice I lifted one line from that episode. It is brilliant tv, I highly recommend it with the caveat that the entire series deals with depression, substance abuse, suicidal tendencies, and it can be very triggering if you're dealing with any of those issues. But good god is it cathartic.
> 
> This is a flash fic, so light editing, all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Also, this is slight canon divergence...more of a...delaying of events than changing them. (can't say much more because spoilers!)

“You know, Odin…” 

Loki smooths his black tie. A useless gesture, as the man across the decrepit table wouldn’t know a tie from a bilgesnipe at this point, so strong was the curse Loki had laid upon him. The god picks up a piece from the chess set laid upon the stained wood, feeling the ragged edges of the would-be king.

“You held a funeral for me. All of Asgard showed to pay their respects to the fallen Prince,” Loki smirks, setting the king piece down on the board. “Or possibly to celebrate my demise. Difficult to say, really.”

Odin, of course, does not respond. His remaining eye stares listlessly in Loki’s direction. It is glassy, fogged with incomprehension, searching for something that does not exist. 

Loki tells himself the pain in his gut is merely indigestion. 

“A traditional Asgardian funeral, if you must know. Or, at least as close as I could come to it. You,” Loki gestures to Odin, “of course, have practice in burying members of the royal family. Even those who tend to reemerge from the dead,” Loki adds with a touch of venom. 

“But, of course, I had no examples to copy from, no rites to study when one of _equal stature_ was cut off from life so…prematurely.”

Another chess piece rolls in Loki’s fingers, back and forth. “I certainly couldn’t use the Queen’s funeral as a case study, now could I?” he hisses, slamming the knight-piece on the table. Part of Loki wishes his - that Odin would free himself from the curse, would launch a counter against Loki’s accusations, would yell, scream, do  _something._

But the King - the former King of Asgard, once feared by all...this…this _old man -_ he only sits, unblinking and _stupid._ Not a word of Loki’s diatribe reaches him, and Loki _hates_ it. 

Hates _him._

Tells him so in no uncertain terms.

Nothing. Odin breathes, shallow, his gaze vacant. The all-seeing All-father now capable of discerning nothing at all.

Loki shifts in the uncomfortable plastic chair ( _bucket_ , he sneers). “Well, at least Asgard retained its libraries after the Dark Elves' attack. And, of course, its stagnant traditions.” He feigns an unconcerned wave of his hand. “Anyway, even if I had used the wrong colored garland, or Norns forbid, the incorrect number of Einherjar in the honor guard…”

He sits back, the ancient piece of furniture creaking in complaint, the edge of the hole in the back digging into his spine. Despite the discomfort, Loki clasps both hands behind his head, smiling. It is raw and incomplete.

“An unconventional funeral for an unconventional prince.” 

His eyes search for a distraction, landing on the simple clock on the white-plastered wall. An ugly thing, shrouded in orange, its numbers large and imposing. It seems an inappropriate item in a place where time is so dear - to count it down in this fashion, with its denizens being so close to…it seems almost inhumane.

“Well, that’s what I _would_ have said if anyone had dared ask. Which, incidentally, they didn’t,” Loki forges ahead, ignoring the twisting of his gut, the way the off-white walls ( _peeled paint, rusted water stains everywhere, the ceiling cracked, unfit for a King)_ seemed to draw closer with every passing moment. 

He falls silent, unsure of what to say next, secretly bemused that in this, his lauded silver tongue fails him. A television drones quietly in the far corner of the common room, its screen absurdly small, antennae rising as strange metal branches over the faded brown box. Around this device is a small gathering of motley furniture- a plaid, stained armchair in a sickly green and orange; a sad, rickety, rocking chair, two wooden bars missing in the back; and a small, two-seat sofa that looked ( _and reeked_ ) as if it had been dragged from a dumpster this morning. A few of the residents nap in their seats, mouths hanging open, stares empty, as if in practice for death. The room smells of decay, of neglect.

_This is no place to leave one’s elders_ , Loki thinks.

The god starts to play with the chess pieces again, rearranging them around the board. A knight here, a rook over there - the queen, majestic, the center of attention while the king is guarded by his pawns.

Guilt nips at the edges of his mind.

Loki stares at the table, then at Odin’s weathered hands, which are folded together in front of him, trembling ever so slightly. Acid rises in his throat. 

_Norns, when had Odin aged so?_

“Of course,” Loki speaks to the beige carpet, “the belongings they burned on my pyre - that floating bier - they were not my own. It was junk from palace storage, glamoured to resemble my things. Spellbooks, mostly. My helm. A pair of ceremonial daggers - you do remember those, don’t you? Enchanted by the elves of Alfheim, the hilts forged by the dwarves of Nidavellir. My coming-of-age present.” 

The memory washes over Loki as a fine mist. The pageantry of the day - the decorations, in _his_ colors, the gathering of important mages and sorcerers, the way everyone’s attention, for once, was on _him._ (His excitement to finally join Thor on equal footing. Loki allows his head to fall with a single empty chuckle, his long hair obscuring the tightening lines of his features. _Equal to Thor, if there was ever such a thing._ )

“I actually considered letting the daggers go with the body, you know. Almost did it, to be honest. But, their unfortunate history aside, it _is_ rather difficult to come by dwarven-made weapons these days, especially if you happen to be, well, _me_.” Loki chews his lip, feeling for the small lumps of scar tissue under his skin. “And a commission of dual daggers now would be…suspect, to say the least. Who else in Asgard would lower themselves to fight with such flimsy weapons but the dead prince?” he grits through clenched teeth, grabbing at the edge of the table. The surface squeals with the combination of sweaty hands and eroded varnish, but no one seems to take notice of the table’s (or Loki’s) distress. They don't notice anything, at all.

The living dead. No wonder Loki feels compelled to return here time and time again. 

Loki inhales deeply, storing excess oxygen in his expanded chest. It is a calming method, a simple meditative trick, nearly second-nature to him at this point, but the influx of fresh  _(in relative terms)_ air also reminds him that he is _alive_ , his pulse drumming in his ears, his lungs shoving up against his breastbone. He needs this, this assertion of _life_ , of _his_ life, _his_ body, he is not dead, he did not die on Svartalfheim, did not feel those clammy, cold fingers wrap around his heart, did not -

He exhales through a constricted throat, ragged and slow, air seeping out molecule by molecule until his heart calms, until his stormy thoughts settle into gentle eddies. 

Loki crosses his legs in an elegant movement, wrapping his hands around his knee.

“The funeral you gave. It was spectacular. Bathed in moonlight, nary a breath of wind, the archer’s aim true as my pyre lit, sending my remains to the stars in a cloud of golden ashes.” He furrows his brow. “A calculated risk, as the muffled gasps from the crowd indicated.”

“And then I turned to address the populace - well, you turned. Couldn’t leave them without some answers, as you well know uncontrolled rumors spread like wildfire and do twice as much damage.” 

Loki brings his gaze to Odin’s. 

“And so I asked Asgard, ‘Does Loki deserve Valhalla?’”

 

* * *

 

 

_Does Loki deserve Valhalla?_

No.

And yes.

Loki. Second Prince of Asgard. God of Mischief. Liesmith. Silvertongue. _Seidrmadr._

My son.

And not my son.

I’m certain Loki would have much to say on this topic if he were here right now. In fact, it is rather strange to not have some witty, venomous barb already thrown in my face at that statement. 

He was your Prince. My second son, dark-haired, mysterious - intelligent and talented. A shadow in the brilliant sun of Asgard. 

Many of you did not respect this, did not understand his nature, even forgot that Loki, for all his faults, was the son of Odin All-father, was of royal lineage, Asgard his to command. 

This is perfectly understandable. 

Loki was a traitor - to this realm and to his family. A defeated conquerer of Asgard’s protectorate. And this only the most recent of his many well-documented crimes. 

And still, he was your Prince. 

Loki died, stabbed through the heart with the blade of the Kursed, of the Dark Elves of Svartalfheim.

He died.

A suitable punishment for a traitor twice over. 

Loki died, having fallen into the Void, lost to us forever, a casualty of the destruction of the Rainbow Bridge, of the Frost Giants’ incursion into Asgard, which he himself brought about.

Again, a suitable punishment for a traitor. 

He died. 

Loki died, protecting this Realm, protecting his family, his people from the Jotnar, from the Dark Elves, from universal forces of darkness.

_And so I ask, does Loki deserve Valhalla?_

Many knew him as Loki Liesmith, teller of untruths, fiend of Asgard. 

I need not expand on this. His stories are as legendary, as notorious as any other in this Realm. His misdeeds were proven again and again, his punishments many. His Binding, his Silencing by the Dwarves of Nidavellir, his recent return to Asgard, chained, muzzled like a wild animal. 

Loki Liesmith - _I damn thee_. I damn your false tongue, your vicious acts which tore this Realm - and this family - apart. 

Liesmith was only one of the many names my son went by. His untruths were poison, but his stories - they were as sweet as any fruit from Iðunn’s garden, as smooth as the wine of the Elves, as beautiful as any Dwarven craftsmanship. 

Loki Silvertongue, then. Not God of Lies, but God of Stories, the one who stood at the fire pits when you all had quaffed your fill, casting illusions, relating our people's history and courageous deeds as you listened with sated bellies and drowsy eyes.

Silvertongue, who traveled to Alfheim, to Vanaheim, and beyond, brokering deals, ingratiating himself with foreign courts on nearly every branch of Yggdrasil. Silvertongue who saved so many with his quick wit and cunning, who turned his tools and talents to Asgard’s betterment and eternal glory. 

Loki Silvertongue - _I praise you._ I praise your honeyed words, your stories and your tales, which brought this Realm, and our people, a greater peace. 

_I ask you, then - Does Loki deserve Valhalla?_

_Seidrmadr_ are not common to Asgard, as you all well know. Loki was unique in that regard, both celebrated and reviled for his skill in sorcery.

What use is magic versus might, we asked him?  What can illusion do in the face of strength? What good is pretending when confronted with reality?

Illusion can cover many ills, allow us to believe in what we see, to continue in the face of truths that may be too strong, too heavy for us to bear. 

A misapplied fist, a truth too soon, too harsh will break walls, can destroy the very foundations of what keeps us together. 

Illusion and fact, then. Strength and magic. One not better than the other, both with the capacity to hurt and to save. Working in tandem, in balance. 

Loki was my son - a fact. 

But also an illusion. 

Loki was not my son.

An illusion, you might say,  _his_ illusion.

But also a fact. 

The circumstances of Loki Laufeyson’s birth are mostly unknown. He is the son of the deceased ruler Laufey and his Queen Farbauti, child of the frostbitten Realm of Jotunheim and its rightful King. Any facts beyond those have been lost to Asgard’s reckoning. 

The circumstances of Loki Odinson’s birth are more well known, although until today not a matter of public record. Loki Odinson was born in the twilight of the war with Jotunheim. Found abandoned in the High Temple of Utgard, the young babe came into the care of Odin Borson, King of Asgard, All-father, Bane of the Jotnar, and now…father to a second son.

Loki Laufeyson, Loki Odinson - they are one and the same. 

Jotun and Aesir. 

An illusion - and a fact.

He was my son.

Raven-haired, mischievous, talented, wise beyond his years.

Acerbic, violent, withdrawn, scheming. 

All of this was Loki - Loki, my second, but no less important, no less competent, no less loved child.

And now he is dead. 

And everything is worse.

_Does Loki deserve Valhalla?_

That is a decision only he can make. 

 

* * *

 

Odin stares at him, _through_ him, unblinking. Loki tries to hold his gaze but finds he cannot, the edges of his vision blurring with the strain, the knot in his chest making it difficult to breathe. He once again picks at the chess board. It isn’t quite right, it’s not perfect just yet, the king needs to move, the queen is in danger. 

“Not that you understood a word I just said, of course,” he spits quietly.

The king moves to the back of the board. It is a game Loki plays with himself, testing, pushing at boundaries of strategy, of ideas. It is almost over. 

“Typical, really,” he sighs, sacrificing a pawn. 

“Anyway, it was a beautiful ceremony. Asgard was both roused and thoroughly confused by my - by your - words.”

And there it was. Stalemate. Loki knocks over both kings, white and black conceding to the other.

No one wins. 

Truth, in white. Illusion, in black. 

He sighs, tucking his hair behind his ears. Loki lets his hands drop in his lap, picking at his dry skin. He says nothing, content to wallow in the pathetic drone of the television, the arrhythmic _clicks_ of a hobbling fan on its last dregs of mechanical life. The air is heavy, filled with ancient dust, of musty shadows of the past. 

“Or,” Loki croaks, barely able to form the words, “that’s what it would have sounded like, if there had been a funeral.”

He forces himself to look one more time at Odin, swallowing over the desert in his throat. 

It hurts. 

But there is nothing more to say.

Loki stands, unsteady. He swipes a hand over his eyes, mouth tense. After a moment, he readjusts his jacket, then his tie, his movements slow and labored, as if he is fighting the whole of gravity itself. 

He turns to leave, back now to the table, to Odin. Loki takes a step forward, and then stops, tilting his head around ever so slightly. 

“That’s what I would have wanted you to say, father,” he whispers.

Loki runs a hand over his face, pinching his the bridge of his nose. 

And then in an instant, he is gone.

Odin stares after his son’s retreating form, pupils dilating, eyes following the dark figure until it cannot be seen anymore. 

He reaches out a weathered, shaking hand, picking up both kings from the chessboard, placing them next to each other. 

“No, Loki. No.”  

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, that was kind of sad.
> 
> So, yes, obviously, Loki would have held his own funeral at some point. (Because how else would we have gotten _The Tragedy of Loki of Asgard_?) But for the purposes of this story, it's delayed until Lokes can get a better handle on himself and the situation. (And so the author could write sad, angsty fiction.)
> 
> (Yes, "a shadow in the brilliant sun of Asgard" is a play on "son" and "sun" because I am a Shakespeare junkie in my spare time).
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr! [@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/) || [@legobiwan](https://legobiwan.tumblr.com/)


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